Dead Man Walking - The final days of a Canadian Expat in Thailand

I was going to post this to my other thread about visas for a dying person, but I realised that I would be hijacking the thread, so I've started a new one, with the overriding proviso that the Kamnan formerly known as ManDrunk is God and will yay or nay as His Holiness sees fit. And shift messages around as he might be inclined to do so.

I promise to keep things light but factual and not delve into self pity. I have a positive outlook on both life and death and hope to make you laugh or at least groan occasionally as I work towards my cremation in the LOS [date and time and place to be announced]. And if you really don't like what I write, then you are not invited to my cremation ceremony. So there.

Kidnapped by the Hospital

A couple of days ago, as the guys were rewiring my house, my condition deteriorated. It got bad enough that my housemates decided to make an emergency run to the hospital, with the plan being to go to Ubon Ratchathani where there is money waiting in an account for a cataract operation, donated by a friend in Canada. However, by the time a truck was arranged, my situation became more of a "situation" as in "get the guy there NOW!" so they charged for the hospital here in Kantharalak (Sri Sa Ket province) where I was duly checked in, given blood tests immediately and an Xray immediately (first time I've had that done sitting up on a gurney) and then basically kidnapped and held against my will.

They refused to let me leave, forcing an overnight stay. I said I don't have the money for that; they had done blood tests and an Xray, and I am sure the total plus an overnighter would be far more than the 2000 baht we have.

The doctor, though, is young and keen and speaks English. I told him I was not a smoker but had won the lottery and received smoker's lungs as my prize.

"This is a Thai government hospital; the patient comes first," he said, "You can't go home, you're staying. Worry about your health, not the money." He said, "The people of this region are farmers, mostly, and the majority smoke and many have exactly the same problems as you. We know what we're doing. Spend a few days with us and we will do some tests and determine the correct regime for you and your life will be much better. Trust me."

Would you buy a used car from this man?

But there are no private rooms, so I'm in a ward with 25 other people, mostly old men like me, but with various problems, not just pulmonary disorders. And there's no A/C, just a bunch of fans on the ceiling. The lights were left on all night. And the bed and pillow are made of concrete and could serve as parts of a runway. I didn't sleep at all. As far as I can tell, I'm the only farang patient in the whole hospital.

That first night was a big problem. I have lost a lot of my body fat, so my hip bones are basically exposed and they objected to the concrete bed. My ears hurt on the concrete pillow. I had to get a blanket, fold it four times, and lay on that as a buffer, but it still hurt. And I used my hand as a buffer on the pillow.

In the morning, after a 100% sleepless night, I was ready to leave. The doc tried to convince me to stay, but I resisted. My housemate/nurse intervened, and said she could help, went back home and came back an hour or so later with a duvet, which became the cover for the concrete mattress, plus a real mattress cover, my pillow, clothes, and other junk like toothbrush and toothpaste, etc. Oh, and she brought my laptop. What a sweetheart.

So I agreed to give it another try. I discovered there was free WiFi by connecting to a router in the administration section two floors above. Probably illegal, but what are they going to do, shoot me? I'm dying anyway. Put me in prison? So what, I'm a dead man walking.

However, we had a big rainstorm all afternoon, and it was only at 10 PM that the Internet was actually working.

My housemate pointed out that the doctor's drugs and oxygen are already making life better as I am rarely coughing and can talk normally without squealing. They had me on double the oxygen that the oxygen company recommended, and they have the missing link: it's a monitor that clips on a finger and gives a readout of pulse and oxygen level. When I tried the oxygen at home, I thought it wasn't doing anything. The monitor indicates positively if it is or isn't. So I guess I'll be here a few days, and hopefully will end up with something useful that will put me back on my feet.

Last night, with the softer bed, I was actually able to get 3 or 4 hours sleep. They've been giving me various drugs today and I've been on oxygen all day. It's still hot as h*ll in here, in spite of the fans, and I have to pee into a plastic bottle and poop into a bedpan on top of a farang-style toilet chair, as I can't walk to the toilet, which is too far away, meaning more than 6 feet/2 metres.

The showers have only cold water, and that would normally be a problem, but they're too far away also so my housemates will be bathing me in bed, I guess.

There are 3 doctors on rotation. Although they look physically different, they are all competent and concerned; all have good bedside manner; and they seem equally knowledgeable about pulmonary fibrosis. I was on a full face mask, but now the docs have switched me to the nasal cannula, which I found ineffective at home, as when I gasp for breath, I use my mouth. However, one doc said the full mask is ultimately dangerous as I would get too much oxygen, the oxygen tank setting is at 6, not the usual 3 for the cannula. I told him there are "oxygen bars" in the USA and he looked at me like I was crazy.

Anyway, I'm here for a few days and it will either help or it won't. Such is life.

He Pooped Away His Life

A while ago, I downloaded the 8 seasons, I think it is, of the US TV series, "The Sopranos", which is about the Mafia in New Jersey. In one of the episodes, one of the bad guys is in the toilet for a very long time, and when his buddies check on him, they discover he has died while pooping.

This nearly happened to me today.

First, a word about the arrangements here in the hospital.

It's an open ward, with 24 beds arranged in four groups of 6. Each bed has a plastic curtain that can be pulled around two sides, so you need to hijack the curtain for the next bed to get some privacy. There are ceiling fans, and when the curtains are pulled together, they are blown open by the fans, so there actually is little privacy.

I physically cannot walk anywhere anymore, needing a wheelchair, but the toilets and showers are 20 metres away and not wheelchair accessible. My housemate found two farang-style toilet chairs and commandeered one. These are designed to fit over a typical Thai-style squatter toilet, and then "it's plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh what a relief it is" (Alka Seltzer ad from the 60s).

I don't have a squatter anywhere near me, so she also commandeered a metal bed pan, which she put on top of the seat, not under it, to avoid splashing and making a mess.

She has arranged the toilet chair and bed pan next to my bed, put a large garbage bag over the bedpan and tucked it under to simplify disposal and cleaning and so all she has to do is arrange the curtains, and I hop off the bed onto the floor, pull down my pants, sit on the garbage bag, and do my thing without having to walk anywhere. That's the theory, anyway.

The reality is quite different.

First, getting me off the bed and onto the floor takes some manoeuvering and a couple of minutes, during which I begin panting heavily, as this is more exercise than my defective lungs can handle.

I finally make it to the floor, and my housemate goes outside to hold the curtains shut as there are no clips. I let my shorts drop to the floor, pull down my underpants, turn and sit on the garbage bag covered bed pan.

My breathing begins to slow down. I pee into a metal urinal first, then set it aside.

First realisation: bed pans are uncomfortable when you have little body fat left in your bum. In fact, it was downright painful as the sharp edges of the metal were digging in.

I sit there for a few minutes and it seems to take forever before my body decides to eliminate its waste. Finally it gets started, and then it stops.

I hate it when that happens.

You've got half a turd sticking out and the other half not wanting to leave home.

Back at my house, I would just use the toilet hose and wash it away. But here, there is no hose.

By now, my bum feels like it's being sliced in half by the edges of the metal bed pan.

I had no choice but to stand up.

Second realisation: plastic garbage bags stick to bare flesh, especially after being pressed into flabby bums by sharp metal objects.

Standing up is called "exercise" by my body, and so my lungs start panting at double time.

Grab the toilet paper and start wiping. More exercise. Pant harder. There is a race on now to see if I can finish wiping before I pass out.

I'm moaning now with each pant.

"Are you alright, daddy?" It's my housemate outside holding the curtains.

"No," I gasp, "get nurse" I manage to get out between pants.

She doesn't understand.

I collapse back to the sharp metal object.

"NO! GET! NURSE! NOW!"

She runs off, and the curtains blow open. There's a curious lady there watching, wondering at this real-life drama.

By now, my bum is protesting about being sliced open by sharp metal, my lungs are panting like I've just completed a marathon, and my voice box is squealing uncontrollably.

Another lady joins the show.

And I didn't complete the wiping, I know I need more work down there. Oh, my kingdom for a toilet hose.

My housemate comes back, leading a slow-moving fat nurse, who is holding a Nebulizer. Of all the nurses in this hospital, I get the fattest and slowest.

She unhurriedly unscrews the cannula and replaces it with the Nebulizer, except she does it wrong, and it's much more than a minute, about 37 minutes, before she gets it working properly; seems that way, anyhow. Time warps when you're spaced out on oxygen-free air. The Nebulizer has a drug that reduces muscle spasms, which I am having in abundance now.

My audience has increased by two more ladies. I think they are all farmers, as their skin is quite dark, and probably Lao, according to my housemate, as this is the closest hospital to Laos in this area. And they've probably never seen a farang up close dying on a toilet.

I'm lightheaded now, my body is swaying back and forth, my bum is in real pain from the metal pan edges, my bum crack feels slimy, I'm wailing like a banshee, whatever a banshee is, and I sound like a locomotive and a dying pig simultaneously.

I'm sure the now 5 lady audience was enjoying the show, but I know the whole room is listening as I spend my last few moments alive.

And I'm thinking this is my epitaph: "Here lies Douglas Anderson, he had a good heart, but bad lungs got him in the end and he pooped away his life".

This lasts for several minutes, no exaggeration, and I am utterly convinced that I'm going to go the way of the Sopranos guy.

But gradually, the drug takes effect, and the spasms die down, and my breathing slows, and the now 6 ladies look disappointed.

My bum hurts like hell from the sharp metal.

My housemate looks relieved that I am going to make it, realises the curtains are open and we have an audience, and pulls them shut. I can hear the ladies leaving, chatting about something, probably the situation in Afghanistan.

And I know the race is not over yet.

I'm still slimy down there, and the Nebulizer still has maybe a quarter of the drug left. I need to stand up, finish wiping, and get my pants up before the drug stops.

Standing up is called "exercise" and we all know what that means. I tell my housemate to help me get some toilet paper ready, pre-folded, and some baby wipes ready, and to do it quickly, as time is rapidly running out.

Then the race starts. I stand up, the panting starts immediately, I wipe with the first set of toilet paper (more exercise), panting increases, second set, panting increases, light-headed-ness starts, and so on. We didn't make it. The drug ran out, I collapsed back on the sharp metal object, and I'm ready to die again, twice in 20 minutes.

And we have another audience. Sigh.

Five minutes to rest and get my breathing back to normal. We get the nurse to switch the Nebulizer out and the cannula back in.

Stand up again. Panting restarts. Quick wipe with baby wipe. Panting increases. Second wipe. Panting increases. Light-headed again. The h*ll with it. Sit down.

I really, really appreciate toilet hoses now.

Finally, my breathing slows enough that I can stand up and pull my underpants back up. Immediately I sit down again and rest. After a few minutes, do the same thing with my shorts. Sit down again. Rest. After a few minutes, stand up, turn to the bed and hoist myself up. Nothing wrong with my arm muscles, thanks to rolling around a wheelchair with 75 kilos of dead weight. But it's exercise. Rest again until breathing slows.

Housemate goes away to dispose of garbage bag full of waste and toilet paper and used baby wipes.

Life used to be so simple.

The upside is that I'm still here to talk about it.

Kamnan, i wanted these to be two separate posts, but for some reason they were combined into one. How do i prevent that?

At least you can inject a little humour into your situation, Doug. Stay as positive as you can to make the most of the time you have left. At least now you have a few people close to you for support as well as the best wishes from us here on OE.

Doug,

I find your humor quite admirable in light of your tough situation.

And from what you say of your housemates, it is nice to know that kindhearted people still exist - in every country.

I wish you the best.

As far as I can remember, we've never before had a Canadian posting from atop a bedpan in a government hospital in Sisaket.
What language are the locals speaking? Khmer perhaps?

DougBangkok, on 06 June 2011 - 02:17 AM, said:

If someone posts consecutively within an hour, the posts are automatically merged... beyond an hour, they are separate.

No, the locals speak Lao first or as their only language. The docs speak Lao, Thai, and English. The nurses don't speak much, if any English, just Lao and Thai.

Of course, the Lao people here permanently don't call it "Lao", they call it "Passah Isaan".

There are 25 million people in Thailand that speak Lao/Passah Isaan as their first language, compared to 5 million in Laos.

Practically nobody in this area speaks Khmer, but some speak "Passah Suay", which is local to Surin and Sri Sa Ket provinces, just one of the 75 languages spoken in Thailand. I was surprised a few weeks ago to find a young waitress who speaks Suay; I thought that it was dying out fast, like Chong in Chanthaburi province. The fact that youth are still learning it gives hope for cultural preservation.

with no dis-respect intended, but i had a good laugh, hang in there old man, you have only one life to live, there's no such thing as after life, i enjoy that read, keep connecting so we all know you're still there.

Threads like this sure help to justify the existence of this website... and the fact that Doug has chosen to share his thoughts with us at this time, sure reflects well on this community.

I found that in general Isaan hotel beds are pretty hard compared to guesthouse beds. Since I am currently forced to sleep on one side only, 2 weeks of Isaan beds earlier this year gave me a mild case of bursitis.

As for privacy, forget it upcountry. On a trip to a small village in Roi-Et to see the Bang Fai festival many years ago I got a bad case of diarrhea. When I finally agreed to see the doctor at the local clinic (more of a one-room hut), the whole village crowded in to see me get get a shot in my pearly white arse. However, they did clear out - grinning from ear to ear - when I asked for a little privacy.

Poor Internet Resolved, Boredom NOT

The Internet access here in the hospital turned out to be more off than on, and would only stay on for a few seconds. I was up until 2:30 AM to get those initial posts actually posted.

But today I got an AIS 2G modem, and I've got a stable 5 bar signal. So after getting my fill of web news and checking e-mail, boredom set in. So I thought I'd show some pics of life here for your edification and potential amusement, as we all get old, and someday you might appreciate knowing exactly how to use a bedpan when you're not in bed and have no bum padding.

The WRONG Way to Use a Bedpan with a Toilet Chair

This is what we did. Don't do this.

 Dsc00001-WrongWay.jpg   39.29K   15 downloads.

lmao....my mother in law got one of those, yes the tin can go on the bottom

The RIGHT Way to Use a Bedpan with a Toilet Chair

Put the bedpan on the floor directly under the hole in the plastic seat.

 Dsc00002-RightWay-1.jpg   44.81K   3 downloads

Put a plastic bag in the pan, extending up and over the rim under the plastic seat.

 Dsc00004-RightWay-2.jpg   50.25K   3 downloads



I've Joined the X-Men

The docs added a portal to my left hand to allow the insertion of a needle with drugs. It looks for all the world like a laser gun, which would surely qualify me to join the X-Men.

 Dsc00005-LaserGun-1.jpg   37.07K   4 downloads

 Dsc00005-LaserGun-2.jpg   38.27K   4 downloads

Edited by DougBangkok, 06 June 2011 - 08:28 PM.

Well I never, OE is certainly becoming more educational, that's for sure !

A good thread Doug.

Keep your humour up. That bedpan looks like a hard target at that distance, a bucket might be a better bet.

Can't you fix a plank or shelf under the seat for the bedpan to sit on so you don't need the plastic bag? Might negate the need for the p¡$$pot as well, especially if you don't want the "joy" of getting out of and back into bed just to take a leak.

And as for a "bum gun" as some refer to it, you could try a bucket of water on something higher than the seat so you can have water run through a length of hose under siphon pressure. All pretty cheap and easy for someone to rig up.

You could also take that loo seat frame to the shower and sit on that while you wash- assuming you can get it in there.

And that cannula looks more Spiderman than X Men.

Edited by Uncle Gweilo, 06 June 2011 - 09:15 PM.

Doug, don't listen to Uncle Gweilo... what you need is one of these...

Thanks Doug for the blow by blow

Appreciate your humor in your circumstances

Wish there were some kind of miracle cure for you

กำนัน, on 06 June 2011 - 09:42 PM, said:

We call 'um dingleberries in the States. Doug, what's the Canadian slang?

Dunno, in the cities we never get them and in the country they freeze immediately and fall off, along with your balls if you're dumb enough to poop outside in the middle of a Canadian winter.

Current Status

 Dsc00007-DeathlyBored.jpg   56.93K   21 downloads

As you can see from the pic, I am not exactly in the prime of health right now. I have confirmed that I am the only farang in the hospital. The docs mean well, but their average patient is Asian and weighs around 45 kilos; I'm Caucasian and weigh closer to 75 kilos, so the ratio of drugs, and possibly the type of drugs, are going to be different and will take time to work out.

I'm not eating much; probably the drugs are killing my appetite. Breakfast is usually a fruit plate, lunch is noodle soup or a 7-Eleven sandwich, dinner is rice and meat. I drink water all day, probably 2 litres a day.

I'm hanging in there.

There's a lot of activity in the ward as each patient has at least one family member living there for support, usually sleeping on the floor near the bed. There is a minimal number of nurses, unlike the 5 star hospitals in BKK.

I don't enjoy all the barfing and hacking up of lungs, but I do enjoy the little kids: "Look! A farang!"

My primary caregiver bought a tent-like mosquito net as she and her BF and 15 month old baby have been sleeping just outside the ward, in the open air but under a large roof overhang. When she wakes up in the night, she comes to check on me. I am usually awake due to the large amount of noise and the lights on.

that room doesn't look too bad, yeah! open room are freaking noisy, hang in there old man

kamikaze, on 06 June 2011 - 03:19 PM, said:

I'll never forget a visit to a remote government hospital in a distant Amphur on the border of Surin and Buriram. I was getting an 'inflammation' checked out on my, erm, male equipment. The symptoms were being read out very publically in the main waiting area, with everyone in the room listening. Privacy just doesn't exist, everyone knows your business. This is very hard to fathom, or tolerate, if you're unaccustomed to it.

chingy_, on 07 June 2011 - 02:04 PM, said:

I've had a number of experiences in Thai government hospitals over the years. The most recent was 2009 when we were sent to the Chiang Rai Prachanukhro Hospital, to pick up some kind of H1N1 preventative medicine for our daughter, I don't remember exactly. My impression of that hospital is that they have capable staff. It's sure a busy place. Another time was when my sister in law was in a car crash and we all jumped into the car to head down to the hospital she'd been admitted to. Very basic facilities. Another time was on Koh Lanta, I think around 6 years ago, where I was tested for Malaria. All of these places seemed to have reasonably good staff that do the best they can with the limited facilities. If you compare these government hospitals to medical facilities in places like Laos or Myanmar, Thailand isn't so bad.

My impression - before pictures - was much worse. But being in the hospital is being in the hospital...so keep up your spirits.

Doug, how much Thai can you speak? Can you communicate with the nurses if your carer is not around?

Random Thoughts on Life and Death

It's natural, I think, for people to question the meaning of life and death, especially as you approach your own death. Here's a bunch of stuff I was thinking about this morning.

On Belief in God

I sent an e-mail the other day to a lady I worked with 25 years ago, saying I had enjoyed our (non-sexual) relationship at the time, still remembered her fondly, and just wanted to thank her for being part of my life, as I am now dying of an incurable disease.

She replied back, and one of her lines was, "Put your faith in God!" I found that a very strange thing to say, for a number of reasons.

Last week, I watched the 1951 movie, Quo Vadis, starring a very young Peter Ustinov as a psychotic Nero, the Roman Emperor who destroyed Rome and tried to destroy the early Christian movement by massacring them in the Colliseum, for the amusement of himself and Roman citizens, by letting many African lions attack them. "They're singing!" he shouted as they were killed.

If there is a single, all powerful God, why would He allow such an event to occur? Surely there are other, less harmful ways of attracting attention and building a movement.

On Educating Myself

Until I was 12, I went to Sunday school in Bronte, which is a small town in southern Ontario, Canada, not far from Niagara Falls. There was a Catholic school and church, and half a dozen other churches of various Christian off-shoots, for a population of 1200 at the time, but I don't recall a synagogue nor a Muslim temple. At that age, I was not aware they existed.

In my school, each classroom had its own small library appropriate to the age group of the class, but I typically consumed the books designed for my age, then read the ones for the next class, then the ones after that. I had read every book in the school by the time I was 10.

For example, I learned about electricity and control systems when I was 8 because I had an electric train set. I understood the weather cycle by age 9; and around that time also understood natural cycles of plants, animal and human bodies, continents and geologic movements, and like all young boys, dinosaurs and fossils. I was not rare, most of my friends were similar. We were bright, active, intellectually curious. We believed in God because our parents said to.

Oh, and we called breasts "muffins", as in "Wow, look at the muffins on that one." Our education was obviously incomplete in certain areas.

At 13, I moved to Scarborough, a suburb of Toronto, and started high school. It was a new school, built for the huge influx of babies born after the second world war, of which I was one. They had an excellent library, and I set about trying to read every book that generated even the slightest interest in me, including religion and languages.

I discovered, among other things, the history of Christianity, Roman and Greek civilisation, Esperanto (invented by a Polish man to solve communication problems between nations), and science fiction.

Oh, and James Churchward, an archeologist who postulated the existence of a civilisation predating the Greeks, which he called "Mu", the Greek letter for "M", which he used to indicate that this was the Motherland of Mankind, and the location of the Garden of Eden as described in the Bible. He also postulated that Mu gave rise to a successful colony, called Atlantis, and then both were destroyed by geologic events. We know about them now because of Greek writings, and also because of common elements found around the world in caves and various scrolls.

He wrote three books, but was discredited as an archeologist because he kept insisting on combining religion with archeology.

At that young age, my reading speed increased to a page a minute, and I still maintain that today. I know exactly how long a novel will take me to read because I just divide the number of pages by 60 minutes.

My parents, being Christians, wanted me to attend Sunday School, but I had read about Christianity and refused, saying I did not believe in that particular movement nor in the possibility that there was only a single God. The possibility of millions of gods was something I could accept, but a single God didn't make any sense to me, as who made God?

To their credit, my parents didn't push the issue.

On Tolerance

On the other hand, I am convinced that things happen for a reason.

After I finished my Speak Easy Thai project in July 2006, I could see that I was running out of money, and I went back to Canada to find work in April 2007 because a friend in Ottawa said he could get me a contract in Ottawa at $500 a day minimum. For various reasons, that didn't happen, and I ended up working as a patient sitter in four Ottawa hospitals for $8 an hour.

I lasted four months at that job; one of the problems was that the money was so little and the hours sparse so it just wasn't worthwhile financially. And standing outside in -25 C weather in the snow at 6 AM waiting for a bus to take me to a 12 hour shift was not an attractive thing to wake up to.

But I now realise that it was preparing me for today. My job was to assist patients who had just had a major operation or who had physical or mental problems that the nursing staff needed help with.

I wrote an article about one of my patients; it's oriented towards children (8 to 18) and is available on ezinearticles.com at The Man Who Lost His Face. It's basically a "don't do drugs" article, and if you have children, or teach children English, print it out and read it to them.

Here in this noisy ward, there is a man who is often moaning and groaning. In the middle of the night, 3 AM or 4 AM, he carries on loud conversations with a friend in a bed a couple of rows away. I can't place his accent; although he is undoubtedly Thai or Lao, he has elements of Italian and he frequently uses English words. I've yelled at him to be quiet, and he understands me but doesn't shut up.

This morning, as the nurse was changing my cannula for the Nebulizer, he was shouting again, and I told the nurse he was really annoying. She said, "She has brain cancer." And suddenly I felt very bad. Lung problems are bad and annoying, but brain tumours are disastrous; you are losing your personality. Frankly, I prefer my problem to his. I can deal with this lung problem. Losing the Me that I know as Me would be devastating. So I am now a little more tolerant than I would be if I hadn't worked in hospital wards and if I hadn't come here.

On Karma - What Goes Around Comes Around

When I first came to Bangkok in 1988 on a Canadian-government sponsored project, I thought there were no poor people here. Everyone dressed reasonably well; I saw very few beggars, and no people wearing rags. I saw the shanty towns and poor construction, but the people were happy and looked in good shape, not scrawny nor poor. Bangkok was not India.

After being here 6 weeks, and taking daily walks for exercise and to see what's what, I let myself be dragged by a tout into a small restaurant in the Saphan Kwai area. Inside, it was like an American diner from the 60s, complete with large illuminated jukebox and the little record selection boxes on each table. I sat down and immediately 5 attractive women joined me.

I don't drink alcohol, and never have, so this was my first bar-like experience in Bangkok.

I got out my dictionary, since I knew almost zero Thai, and the girls and I had a slow and tortuous conversation; they spoke almost zero English, probably because this was not a tourist area. When they realised I was only going to order a single Pepsi and no meal, all but one left.

I spent an enjoyable two hours, and went back frequently from then on. Our sessions basically became English/Thai lessons. I asked one of the Thai engineers I was working with how this all worked and he explained about prostitution, mamasans, Isaan women, and many other things.

About a week after that first incident, the girl, Malee, took me upstairs and showed me her "room", which she shared with the other women. She slept on a grass mat, and had a single plastic bag with her possessions. She was wearing a white blouse and denim skirt and a white bra and presumably white underpants. She owned a comb, a second bra and underpants, a second white blouse, a toothbrush and toothpaste, a broken cassette case with no cassette, and nothing else. Zero. Nada.

I realised she was a prostitute but did not indulge, as I was married and had a 17 year old daughter. Using the dicionary, she asked if I could help her. She hated working there, felt trapped because it was low income, and had a daughter back in her village who lived with her mother; when she made a little money, she sent part of it to her mother.

After that I had another discussion with my Thai engineer friend; he was unmarried and was a frequent visitor of Thai prostitutes.

I decided that the best way to help her was to make her a better prostitute, shocking as that may sound. I had no way to get her a better job, had no contacts in Bangkok, and she had no education, having been forced out of school at 10 by her mother. She had chosen prostitution, so if I could improve her English she could switch from Thai to farang customers and make more money.

Her Thai customers would just see her as yet another low class Isaan woman who had chosen prostitution. However, I saw her as a victim of Thai society.

She agreed with my idea wholeheartedly, so I signed her up for an English course at a nearby school, bought her some books, and started tutoring her in my apartment several times a week for two hours a session.

She did not like the classroom training, but reacted well to the one-on-one sessions with me and started making progress with her English, even writing sentences by copying words from the dictionary.

By this time, I realised that there were tens of thousands of young women in the same position. I couldn't help them all, but I could help one without any burden on me, so after returning to Canada, decided to send her money monthly to improve her situation.

Some will no doubt say I was a complete idiot for doing this, throwing money at a prostitute to improve her knowledge of English, but it was not painful for me and anyway, I looked at it as part of the Christian philosophy I had been taught: "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you".

She took me to her village in Isaan and introduced me to her parents. They were renting some land and a small house and ekeing out a living. When we arrived at the property, her mother recognised her immediately, turned to a small girl near her, and said, "This is your mother, go put on your best dress". The kid ran off and came back in a few minutes looking very pretty. Her mother hugged her, but it was clear the kid did not recognise her own mother. She was 5 years old.

I then knew I was doing the right thing.

For 13 years, with the agreement of my wife, who had met her on a trip to Bangkok, I sent her a small part of my income each month and she used that to buy land, build a house with an attached shop, and support her family and daughter. If you want to know the best way to do this yourself, visit How to Send Money to Your Thai Girlfriend

Her sister got AIDS, contracted from her unfaithful husband, and died a painful death. Malee inherited her sister's two kids.

I visited Thailand again a couple of times over the years and checked up on her. Her English had improved remarkably and her customers were now farangs. A couple of them also helped her out financially occasionally. She primarily plied her trade around Khao San Road in Bangkok and the German Beer Garden on Sukhumvit Soi 7 (? I forget).

Eventually, though, my financial situation changed and I had to stop the payments. She survived, though, and when I checked up again in 2005, she was extremely grateful for how my wife and I had made a positive change on her otherwise pretty hopeless life.

That was 1988 when I met her and decided to help her.

It's now 2011, it's 23 years later and I need help. A young Thai family has stepped in and is helping me daily; if that's not Karma, I don't know what it is. I didn't ask for help; they volunteered. Yes, they benefit financially as I am paying most of the bills, but I could not live alone anymore. My own family back in Canada would not be as much help, nor even want to help, as much as this family.

The Bible: "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."

US slang: "What goes around comes around."

Buddhism: Karma.

Edited by DougBangkok, 07 June 2011 - 04:21 PM.

A Moving Experience

A nurse came around an hour ago and said a private room ("VIP Room") is becoming available soon, did I want to move out of the public ward?

Youbetcherass I do.

So a half hour ago, I was moved. My caregivers and a nurse moved all the stuff in 5 minutes, and another nurse pushed me in a wheelchair. The room is on the same floor, maybe 100 meters away.

The move triggered rapid breathing and many uncontrollable muscle spasms, but the doctor obviously anticipated that because he showed up immediately and installed a Nebulizer with the anti-spasm drug.

The room looks old fashioned, compared to Bumrungrad and Praram 9 in BKK, but is quite acceptable. There is a private bathroom with western toilet, a shower head on the wall to make a Thai-style shower (i.e., no glass box around the shower), a refrigerator, large cupboard, two hard couches, a TV and two tables, one of which I am using for the laptop. There is A/C and a fan and two chairs. Compared to the ward, this is heaven.

However, the hospital requires that at least one of my caregivers stay with me constantly as they do not provide personalised nursing.

It's costing 600 baht a night plus 300 for the doctor plus whatever the medicine comes to, so somewhere between 1200 baht / US$40 and 1500 baht / US$50 a night.

There is a funny movie called "Ferris Beuhler's Day Off" (worth renting or downloading) in which a high school student skips school for a day with a couple of friends. While he's away, someone circulates a rumour that he is dying and needs a major operation. Immediately, posters appear throughout the school, and a large banner appears on the town water tank near the school: "Save Ferris Beuhler!".

What I need now is for all you good folks out there to put a sign on your local water tank: "Save Doug Anderson!" so some money will fall down from the sky so I can pay for this extravagance of living in a VIP Room while they experiment on me.

That's good news Doug.

Unfortunately I don't think I've got a local water tank...

I have just spent the last 30 minutes reading your posts....and I am honoured you are sharing this last leg of your life with us folks on OE. I hope you stay around a good while longer as I would love to hear more about your life.

Suffered a Setback

I haven't been eating much in the few days I've been here, probably due to all the drugs I'm taking. I noticed yesterday that I was getting acid reflux again. I used to get that constantly, but it stopped when my weight started dropping a few months ago. Now it's back.

There are several ways to combat it: eat something with dairy in it (cheese, yogurt), eat something with starch (cake, bread, cracker), take an anti-acid tablet (Tums, for example) which is basically calcium carbonate, or take a protein pump inhibitor (PPI, brand names: Losec, Somac, Miracid, etc.). They all work to various degrees, but the one with the least side effects is the PPI, which is expensive in North America but dirt cheap in Thailand.

I haven't needed it for more than 2 months, but I definitely need it now.

Yesterday, before I realised what the problem is, I had one of my caregivers buy some cookies and that solved the problem yesterday.

Today, the reflux was worse; I ate a couple of cookies and laid back watching a movie on my laptop, when I felt really bad. I had taken two of the inhaler type drugs 30 minutes apart, and suddenly was throwing up. There was nothing in my stomach except water and cookie, thank goodness. But it caused breathing problems, and difficult bronchospasms, much worse than usual.

One of my helpers got a nurse in immediately, who quickly installed a Nebulizer and then stayed with me until eventually I calmed down. Then the nurse left.

Fifteen minutes later, the reflux is back, I eat another cookie, and wham, throwing up again. What's with these cookies, am I suddenly allergic? Back comes the nurse, gives me a slug of Milk of Magnesia, which tastes as bad as I remember from my youth, and stays while I go through two Nebulizers. This is because the pharmacy here is closed this time of night. Tomorrow, first thing, I start taking Miracid again, and I stop one of the inhalers, just using the more powerful one.

Experimenting with drugs does involve some setbacks occasionally, Let's hope not too many more.

Do you have a Paypal account? It would be a lot easier for people to donate to help you that way.


I instinctively feel this sense of "I", this consciousness can not be destroyed by death. though probably it won't be identified with your body mind anymore. This is not really comforting to me as sometimes "oblivion" would be more attractive option.

But what does anyone know? We leave this world a clueless about the whole event as when we came into it. The luckiest die of a heart attack or in their sleep or some other swift way. I think the hardest thing to give up near death is our dignity and independence. . but that must go too.

Hope your suffering is minimal.
D

Actually, I do have a PayPal account, which I use for donations to my Multi-Language Dictionary Project (parallel dictionary databases which are used by the Speak Easy Thai graphic teaching program).

Donate to Multi-Language Dictionary Project